


Butterfly

by dinosaurdragon



Series: Missing Moments from TWotS [16]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Cullen Rutherford Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurdragon/pseuds/dinosaurdragon
Summary: Vir'era Sabrae changed Cullen's life irrevocably from their very first meeting.





	1. the first fluttering of wings

**Author's Note:**

> a tie-in for twots! each chapter will cover cullen's point of view for some key interactions throughout the series. these are highly introspective ficlets, not telling any particularly cohesive story without the knowledge of twots. the italics indicate quotes lifted directly from twots and/or canon [but mostly twots].
> 
> i've known from the get-go how different 'my' cullen would be from 'canon' cullen, and while we've seen peeks of that here and there in twots, it hasn't been explored there. this should clear up the emotions i've intended people to interpret through the multiple lenses of a) my writing, b) vir'era's observations, and c) cullen's actions. since that sequence does kind of muddle things, i'm hoping this will make it clearer.
> 
> this first chapter directly correlates to [chapter 4 in the blight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017229/chapters/9299241). thanks for reading!

Blood magic was everywhere. That is the lesson Cullen learned when Uldred staged his coup of Kinloch Hold, and it was not a lesson he would forget lightly. He learned quickly; this had always been a point of praise from his teachers, both as a Templar recruit and even before. So when blood magic came to taint even the strongest of his Templar peers, when the assault began in earnest against his own mind, Cullen vowed never to forget the lessons the Maker taught him in this time of terror. He prayed for safety and for strength, repeating holy words like a chant of protection.

And when Neria came into his vision, as gorgeous and kind as ever, he believed it first a trick of demons—

_“Begone, demons! Leave! I—I will not…”_

—but when her existence persisted, when Wynne sounded ever familiar and the Grey Wardens explained they had not died at Ostagar, he thought perhaps it was an answer to his prayers.

_“You protect, too. You understand. They must be struck down.”_

This was shattered by the revelation that she wanted to _save_ the First Enchanter, whose screams echoed still in his skull, a nearly physical sensation. He tried, he begged for Neria not to go.

There was blood magic there, and he knew, he knew that even she could not guarantee her own safety from its insidious promises. (Daylen was even more dangerous, even more likely to turn to that danger for power.)

He could not convince her, though. He shouted at her. He said things that could never be forgiven in his anger and fear. Whatever he may once have felt for her, whatever he may have once dreamed of, he shattered with his own words.

_“They must be destroyed.”_

Still, she and her companions promised to save him as well as the First Enchanter. Perhaps they were simply naïve. Perhaps they truly believed they could. It didn't matter.

One of their number stayed behind, though, and Cullen knew that this one was innocent. He was no blood mage; a blood mage would not have stayed behind when facing others of their kind. A blood mage would not cower against a dog and cringe at the sounds of violence.

Cullen knew that he must protect this frightened boy, this mage so tormented by what had happened here that he clung to his mabari and sobbed. Cullen watched as the other Dalish, the one with the bow, tried to bring the boy along, as the boy begged to stay.

_“Your friend has not been corrupted by the blood mages. I have no quarrel with him. He is an innocent in this, and a Grey Warden.”_

This was enough for the Wardens, and so Cullen was left with him. Vir’era, according to how the Dalish archer had addressed him. Cullen watched from behind the blood mages’ barrier, itching to move but not daring to. Vir’era clung to the mabari (Littlefoot, they’d called him) and the shaking sobs only strengthened Cullen’s resolve never to forgive or to forget. Blood magic was evil. No one should suffer it.

He drew his sword and knelt, one eye watching Vir’era, the other watching the door.

That Vir’era was a mage did not escape his notice. The plain staff which lay near the shaking elf was evidence enough. Still, Cullen believed in his innocence. Maybe it was just foolish, a desperate need to have at least one person that he could say was not a victim of the blood magic. He didn’t really care. Vir’era was innocent. That was what mattered.

Cullen was a Templar, and Templars were protectors of the innocent, first and foremost. He had failed Kinloch’s mages. He would not fail this one. He caught himself pressing a hand against the barrier, as if to reach out and offer Vir’era... something. He didn’t know what. He pulled his hand back, clenching it tightly enough that, if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he’d likely have drawn blood. The pain helped him concentrate, though, a distraction from the whispers and lies that still floated in his head.

The blood mages’ power over him dimmed slowly. He assumed that meant the Grey Wardens were killing them, and a vicious part of him was glad for the violent deaths they likely faced, longing only to join and inflict at least some amount of his torture back upon his captors.

He shook his head against these thoughts, the larger part of him horrified that such dark desires could have so great a presence in his heart; was he not a virtuous man? The blood mages deserved death, and certainly he could not risk any which had lingered in the Harrowing Chamber, but that did not mean he should give in to the darkness himself. They should have clean deaths, quick ones like any criminal so sentenced. He should not want to torture anyone. No one should endure such a thing. Not even blood mages.

Suddenly, the barrier holding him captive dissipated. 

For a moment, he was so shocked he didn’t move. He feared it simply another trick, but the whispers and scratches in his head had stopped, too. He was free. He stood on shaking legs.

The door to the Harrowing Chamber opened. Voices floated out, and among them, he recognized First Enchanter Irving. But was it just Irving? Was the First Enchanter uncorrupted? He doubted it. None who had entered there, save perhaps the Grey Wardens, could be trusted. All had been exposed directly to the blood mages’ madness. The mages certainly could not be trusted, no matter how he might wish it otherwise. Neria, too.

But the crying elf, Vir’era—he was safe. He had not been exposed.

Cullen forced himself up and held up his sword, standing in front of Vir’era. The Grey Wardens leading the way—Neria and a red-haired woman—stared but did not stop. The other Dalish began to move for Vir’era. Cullen couldn’t allow that.

_“Come no closer!”_

They didn’t understand. Maybe they didn’t want to. It didn’t matter; he kept himself between them and Vir’era, even forcing them to walk down first.

Though he was weak himself from so long behind that barrier, his conviction held him strong. His world had been badly shaken, the rug torn from beneath his feet—but the pillars stood, and he could continue on.

Vir’era, on the other hand, could barely walk. Whatever the mage had seen in his efforts to save Kinloch Hold, whatever he had done as he climbed the tower’s steps, had brought him to his knees and refused to let him up.

Cullen was a Templar, and Templars were protectors.

_“Let me carry you.”_

He might not know if the Grey Wardens and their party were safe, but he knew Vir’era was. No abomination would ever become so weak, so distraught, without turning to violence—and if there was even one good mage in the world who could resist such a temptation, there might yet be others.

It was his duty to protect them.


	2. creating a breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter correlates roughly to just before & the first chapter of [Kirkwall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/13758300).

Cullen hated Kirkwall. Loathed it. Despised it with every fiber of his being.

The very sort of corruption that had turned Uldred to blood magic seemed to seep from every stone, every nook, every mote of dust in that Void-begotten city. Even the Knight-Commander was not immune, though her actions—while extreme—seemed justified in the light of the utter depravity that happened throughout the rest of the city. He could excuse them, could understand them.

Meredith Stannard was a strict woman, even with the Templars under her command. They were given more leniency than the mages, of course, but that was to be expected. A Templar didn’t have anywhere near the destructive power of a mage, and certainly nothing comparable to the possibility of unanticipated corruption.

Cullen, for his determination to uproot blood magic and cull it, was fast-tracked into becoming Knight-Captain. He’d been years away from even being considered for the position at Kinloch, but Meredith had taken a shine to him. Perhaps she knew that he would stop at nothing to eliminate the very things that had caused the near-Annulment of Kinloch. It was the only reason that made sense.

Where most Templar knights had two days off in a week, Cullen was allowed only one. Meredith herself took none. If word was to be believed, she did not leave her post unless she was deathly ill, and that had happened but once.

It didn’t matter, of course. Even on their days off, the Templars of Kirkwall’s Gallows were expected to take part in particular activities, ones she had approved of. It was less a day off and more a day to choose your own schedule. It suited Cullen just fine. When he was working, he didn’t need to think, to remember.

Kinloch had been declared saved, declared safe once more. He wasn’t sure he believed it, even though he’d been there. The Blight had been stopped, but that was more believable, even if it did little to slow the tide of refugees coming to Kirkwall. He heard that the Dalish Grey Warden, the one with the orange hair, had slain the Archdemon and been named Hero of Ferelden.

He looked and listened for news of the other Dalish Warden, but found nothing. No one cared enough to mention him. Was it because he was Dalish? a mage? an elf? It didn’t matter. There was no news about a mage named Vir’era, only about this Theron Mahariel.

Cullen pushed himself deep into the Kirkwall Templar life, barely bothering to take note of the days that passed, not even observing the holidays he’d once looked forward to. They didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

He worked like this, acting as Meredith’s arm, looking for traces of blood magic, destroying it where it could be found, bringing evidence to Meredith when it hid. She liked it, liked him, and he had a purpose. It was something.

The day Vir’era showed up on his doorstep, he first could only stare.

_“You’re alright?”_

Vir’era looked similar to how he remembered, but not the same. His hair was a bit longer, a lot dirtier. He had proper Warden armor, but it, too, seemed unnecessarily filthy, and hung just a touch too loose. And his staff—it was no longer a plain, unassuming thing, but some ostentatious display that did not match up with Vir’era’s meek presentation in the slightest.

Cullen stared, even as he brought Vir’era into his quarters. It didn’t even occur to him to ask why Vir’era was there; the shock was too great. (He barely believed Vir’era was alive.)

_“Your sister asked me to bring you this. She worries about you.”_

A letter. Nothing more intimidating than that, but it still seemed so huge. He had to remind his hand how to move, how to hold, and the parchment seemed all too fragile for the importance of its presence. His fingers held too tight, made impressions with their heat and sweat.

_Cullen_

Just one word on it. Just his name, but he’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. He didn’t know what he’d find within. A scolding, probably. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t sent a letter or a note or even the whispers of a rumor since before Uldred’s coup. Mia had never liked it when he went too long without writing.

How Vir’era knew Mia, why she’d trusted him to bring such a thing here, how either had known where he’d be—all of that was far beyond Cullen. He didn’t care, not really. He started to say as much, but his voice lost its muster when he looked back up at Vir’era.

Even here, Vir’era looked scared. It both relieved and worried Cullen: relieved him because, yes, this was still the Vir’era he had met, uncorrupted and kind-hearted; worried him because Vir’era should feel _safe_ here, far from where the horrors of blood magic had tortured them both. Surely he knew Cullen would not harm him. Unable to stand the sight, Cullen kept his eyes on Mia’s letter and listened as Vir’era stumbled over his words.

_“I just… I just wanted to help. If I could.”_

Vir’era ran from the room before Cullen realized what was happening, and it hurt more than it had any right to.

Vir’era was good, was as innocent as one in his position could be, had not been swayed by demons or blood magic. He had nothing to fear from Cullen—Cullen, suddenly and deeply, wanted nothing in the world more than to protect him. If the Maker had brought Vir’era back into his life, there must be a reason.

Cullen would protect Vir’era. He needed to, more than he’d needed to protect anyone else. Vir’era had reminded him what was important in Kinloch, and—with the simple gesture of a letter—reunited him with his family.

He could never repay such a debt.


	3. turbulence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this should correspond with approximately chapters [5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/14565952#workskin) & [7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/14877349#workskin) of kirkwall.

_Blood magic._

There was nothing in the world that Cullen despised more. Not even the blood mages themselves were so evil—many had once been good, and simply gave into temptation, simply were led astray. He had to remind himself of this. Mages were not the true problem, whatever power they held. It was blood magic that was the problem.

But it was difficult to remember when so much of Kirkwall, from top to bottom, was utterly, terribly, inconceivably corrupt. Maker, some non-mages were so abhorrent that Cullen sometimes had to wonder if they weren’t merely well-disguised maleficarum. So, when even some of the most mild-mannered members of the Circle turned out to be maleficarum, he was set on edge.

It was an excuse, nothing more, and a poor one at that.

While hunting a Templar recruit that he knew had been taken by blood mages, Cullen was approached by a group of strangers—well, strangers and Vir’era. He behaved in a most unbecoming manner, but he’d barely slept the last two days and—

No, those were only excuses.

The dark, cynical part of him took over.

_“Maker preserve us.”_

He accepted the stranger’s help in fighting the recruit-turned-demon, in slaying it and the cohorts it summoned. He accepted fighting alongside Vir’era, and prepared to avoid catching the mage with any wayward Smites. Vir’era’s magic would be useful here.

Except—Vir’era’s magic was unlike anything he had seen in a Circle. Its unfamiliarity terrified him, even if the form seemed benign. Magic was always more than it seemed, he knew. He could be forgiven for not trusting a new magic.

_“You were a cat.”_

He couldn’t look at Vir’era. In the moment, the transformations had seemed too similar to the creation of an abomination. What else changed a person’s form but a demon, after all? He had heard of no magic, no demon, which changed one into a cat, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Magic was ever-changing, mercurial.

With the high tension surrounding the mission, the sleep he’d lost worrying, and Meredith’s constant warnings about blood magic’s insidious nature, Cullen came to the worst possible conclusion, and it was more painful than he could ever have expected.

_“At any time, a mage could become a monster.”_

He should have known he was wrong. Vir’era had never been anything but good to him, and in return… Maker forgive him, Cullen had reported Vir’era’s strange magic to Meredith. He did not call it blood magic, dared not utter the words in connection to Vir’era’s name in the disappearing hope that he had been wrong (he should have listened to that hope), but she drew that conclusion anyway, as he had known she would.

He hated himself for it, hated himself more for being unable to find a way to properly defend Vir’era from the claims, and hated himself most for starting to believe it.

These fears consumed him enough to write a letter to Mia—one that he regretted the moment its messenger was out of sight. Mia was a good judge of character, had always been (she’d known immediately that the ‘Sister’ who came to Honnleath was no such thing), and she trusted Vir’era. Even if she was somehow wrong this time, even if Vir’era had fallen prey to demons recently…

_I fear Warden Vir’era is no longer who we knew. Don’t write him._

He should have been nicer about it. 

He should have checked first, because there are ways to know.

He should have done many things.

Instead, he found himself marching Vir’era, without staff or mabari, to Meredith’s office. He couldn’t look Vir’era in the eye, couldn’t bear to find out if his fears were true, if he had failed. He didn’t want to look in those eyes and see a demon. He didn’t want Meredith to be right.

He stood, stiff and still and aching, as Meredith questioned Vir’era. He let no emotion touch any part of him, especially not his face. Meredith would not stand for weakness.

With the stammering and the shifting, though, he knew this had to be the Vir’era he knew, and his relief was so great that keeping it contained was almost beyond him. Only the sheer willpower that had once allowed him to become a Templar kept Cullen from falling to his knees—well, that and the immense self-hatred that welled up immediately after.

_“I-it’s—it’s an ancient, um, ancient m-magic, ser.”_

_He had done this._ He had brought Vir’era to this place, this moment, where he was so terrified that Cullen could see his fingers shaking. He’d promised himself he’d protect Vir’era. This was the opposite.

It didn’t matter, suddenly, where or when or how or why Vir’era had learned such an esoteric magic. All that mattered was that he was not, in fact, a blood mage or an abomination. He was exactly who he’d always been, and he was good.

_“I can vouch for the Warden.”_

Perhaps because he himself had reported this magic, or perhaps because she knew Cullen’s history with maleficarum, Meredith trusted Cullen to speak the truth in the face of such things. She did not trust him with everything, he knew that well, but she knew he would not vouch for someone he thought dangerous. He had been silent for too many trials leading to Tranquility for that. (At least, for those who received a proper trial. Some did not, and when they showed up Tranquil one day… he could do nothing for them.)

Enter First Enchanter Orsino, one of the most knowledgeable men Cullen had ever met—and loyal to the Circles, to boot, even if he did chafe against how Meredith ran hers. What Cullen did not know about shapeshifting, Orsino did.

_“We do have a few writings on the subject here in this very Circle.”_

Later, Cullen would search for the tomes that spoke of shapeshifting and read them all. In the moment, he waited for Meredith’s decision. She would write to the Warden-Commander, he knew this for certain. But taking Orsino’s advice without amendment? That was a surprise. A good one, of course, but a surprise nonetheless.

He had to admit, he wanted to know what Vir’era could do. Magic was a curious thing, and while he held a healthy fear of its devastating power, he knew, too, that it could be an amazing boon.

Seeing Vir’era change from cat to mabari to Dalish halla…

_That_ was what caused such fascination with magic. He could not say that any of the shapes was easily recognizable as Vir’era, no, but he could see parts of the elf in each—in the cat’s blue eyes, the dog’s cautious stance, the halla’s intricate antlers.

_“The Fade was not weakened for whatever spells he cast.”_

Relief, again, at Orsino’s words. He barely listened to Meredith’s brusque dismissal of both First Enchanter and Warden, so relieved was he.

Vir’era was safe, despite Cullen’s fumbling.


	4. growing speed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is cullen's pov of [chapter 11](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/15620542) of kirkwall

Vir’era grew from acquaintance to fascination. Mia’s letters encouraged this, berating Cullen for his betrayal of the Warden and constantly asking for messages to be delivered on her behalf. He rarely went into Kirkwall proper, and even more rarely into Darktown, but he began to make that journey at Mia’s behest.

_He’s a good man, Cullen. Told me you were still alive when I didn’t know._

Cullen’s debts to Vir’era only grew, it seemed. He was far from the only one—much of Ferelden could surely say the same, in this post-Blight era—but it was so much more personal for Cullen.

And he seemed not to even notice! Did anyone know how much Vir’era had done for them? It would appear not; the man lived in Darktown, running a semi-clandestine clinic for the refugees. Maybe _they_ understood. They certainly watched Cullen close enough whenever he went to deliver one of Mia’s messages or—as had happened a handful of times—to deliver an official request from Kirkwall’s Templars.

Those were few and far between, but they did happen. Each time, it had been for darkspawn spotted somewhere near the city. The guard could probably take care of it, but with a Grey Warden around, it seemed silly not to ask his help. After all, that was his main job, whatever his reasons for being in Kirkwall.

Cullen knew Vir’era’s official business was little more than a front. Meredith knew, too, just as she knew that he ran a free clinic in Darktown. But Vir’era had been a boon to the city, a resource best allowed to remain, so he had been given leave to do as he saw fit.

For a time, at any rate.

Cullen stood silent as Meredith grew stricter and stricter. He knew the mages of the Circle chafed against her rule, but he knew, too, that blood magic ran rampant throughout Kirkwall. Meredith’s rules kept the Circle clean, in check, and Cullen felt that such security was more important than petty things like curfews and screened letters.

He did not always agree with the degree of scrutiny, but his fear of blood magic’s corruption was greater than his discomfort with the mages’ treatment. Those who were innocent had nothing to hide, after all. (He did not think about the Tranquil who appeared overnight, mage one day and not the next. Knight-Captain he may be, but it was the Knight-Commander who held jurisdiction on Tranquility in the Gallows.)

She asked more and more of her Templars, too, demanding they increase the sparring regimen, the running, the patrols. Since her demands coincided with the rise of blood magic, none questioned her.

One ill-fated plot involved Vir’era, and Cullen—known to associate with the Warden—was sent to collect him.

_“Knight-Commander Meredith wishes to speak with you in person.”_

Cullen pretended not to notice how Vir’era’s shoulders hunched at the name, and reminded himself again and again that the Knight-Commander held no jurisdiction over Grey Wardens. The most she could do without blowback was keep him in holding until the Warden-Commander collected him. Whatever Meredith wanted, it was not something harmful.

_“Thank you, Knight-Captain. You may return to your duties.”_

He hated leaving Vir’era alone with Meredith, not knowing what she wanted, but he could not question her orders. The Templars who did never fared well—Samson was proof enough of that.

But what could he do? She was his commander. He was bound to follow her orders, and any protests he might make on Vir’era’s behalf would seem to Meredith, he knew, as unwarranted and excessive sympathy, possibly even fraternization. It was dangerous to help a mage, no matter how inconsequential the help seemed. Meredith would not tolerate it.

To his shame, he stayed quiet.


	5. updraft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is cullen's pov of [chapter 14](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/16260677#workskin) of kirkwall

Cullen knew, in theory, that Vir’era could fight. He was a Grey Warden, after all, and had reportedly been in the final battle that took down the Archdemon. But Cullen also knew that Vir’era was a healer, running a free clinic in Darktown, and that the horrors of Uldred’s coup in Kinloch had ben enough to overwhelm him. Atop that, he was just—he was _small_ , even for an elf, and had visibly lost too much weight since coming to Kirkwall. Mage or not, it was difficult for Cullen to imagine him as a fighter of any means.

Seeing it in person, though, was—well. It was difficult to decide how he felt, because there were many reactions warring within him. The strongest, as always when magic was in use during a fight, was fear. He saw how Vir’era pulled and pushed magic with calm ease, taking down Templar after Templar. It felt so similar to Kinloch, to how Uldred and his followers, how their thralls and demons had torn their way through any opposition like it was nothing. But, unlike then, when blood was drawn here, Vir’era was quick to offer healing; any who fell were brought to their feet once more. His heart calmed its racing a bit more with each peaceful finish.

The fear did not leave entirely, and might never, but it proved manageable. And some of it, he knew, was _logical_. Cullen knew enough of magic, enough of Vir’era and of fighting, to know that the mage was holding back. Sure, Vir’era had more experience in battle than most mages, but that he could expend so little effort to fight even the best Templars that the Gallows had to offer… It was beyond disheartening. If ever there was an insurrection, they would be slaughtered.

The one good thing to come of this was the comfort that Vir’era could, in fact, take care of himself. Small and malnourished or not, he clearly knew what he was doing. He could use more training on close-quarters combat—one day, he might need to fight without his magic to fall back on—but he was good. Capable. And, despite the trepidation he displayed on every visit to the Gallows, he was _kind_ to the Templars. He offered healing for all wounds, even the most minor, and did not ridicule their inability to best him without suppressing his magic.

Cullen had to know if he could do better than his compatriots.

_“I may be Knight-Captain, but I have no greater talent fighting magic than any of the men and women here. If you are not opposed, I would participate in your lessons, as well.”_

And so they fought, and Cullen lost. But sparring with Vir’era, feeling his magic, didn’t hurt as much as Cullen had expected. It was different enough from Kinloch—and maybe it was easier because Cullen had chosen to do it. He broke past ice and deflected lesser blasts. He walked through glyphs, feeling them tug at his mind and refusing to give in, prompting Vir’era to increase their strength until, at last, he could not march through.

He lost, but he knew he’d done better than all the others. No one else had faced Vir’era’s glyphs. No one else had required more than apprentice-level magics. It was victory enough for him.

_“He has amazing mental fortitude. Better even than many mages.”_

The compliment just about made Cullen blush, and a part of him that had been quiet since Kinloch—the same part that had despaired when Neria joined the Grey Wardens… That part of him hoped he’d managed to impress Vir’era.

Later, alone in his room, he wondered if it meant the same thing for Vir’era as it had for Neria. That his heart began to beat faster at the mere possibility was answer enough: somehow, perhaps by simply being so consistently _good_ , Vir’era had captured Cullen’s affections. Maybe, though he hardly dared think it, even his heart.

Nothing could come of it. Cullen was a loyal Templar, and Vir’era was a Grey Warden, certain to be called back to his duties soon. This… this _crush_ was just as doomed as the little flame he’d held for Neria, who had never been attracted to men.

(He told himself he didn’t need to know if Vir’era even could be attracted to him, if Vir’era even liked men in that way. Nothing could happen. It wasn’t important, and would never be.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was important to me, even if it was never obvious from vir'era's side of the story, that cullen developed and acknowledged feelings of attraction prior to finding out that vir'era is trans, specifically because it needed to have nothing to do with that fact. [that said, i'm of the opinion that his crush started at the beginning, but was originally a very fleeting type of thing, and just grew and developed over time, as i'm trying to show in these snippets.]


	6. flurries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is cullen's pov of [chapter 17](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/16724899#workskin) of Kirkwall

Cullen’s first thought, when Vir’era was brought to the Gallows, was less of a thought and more of an incommunicable, bone-deep terror. Vir’era was _dying_ , that much was obvious on every level, from the blood that soaked through his clothes to the limp way he hung in his friend’s arms to the fact that they had brought him here at all.

_“What happened to him?!”_

Blood magic.

The bane of Cullen’s existence; that which stained everything in Kirkwall. It had been more than a year since his hatred for maleficarum had burned so brightly, but now it threatened to overwhelm his more sensible capabilities.

He shouted for the best healers the Circle had to offer. He tried to take Vir’era from the white-haired elf, but received snarls and unspoken threats. Heart pounding, fists clenching, he led them to the clinic room; it was a violation of the rules of the Gallows, but he didn’t care. Vir’era’s life was more important, and he could not afford any delays in treatment.

The healers pushed them from the room. Even Cullen was not allowed to stay, Knight-Captain though he was, even though he attempted to insist. He wanted to ensure Vir’era received the best treatment possible.

(Vir’era deserved better than what the Gallows could offer.)

If he couldn’t be in the room, he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stand waiting there, desperate for news. Vir’era’s friends glared as he passed them, but he paid them no mind. He sought refuge in the Circle’s small Chantry, feeling safer there than any other place in the Gallows, and he prayed.

He prayed to Andraste and to the Maker, begging them to guide him, to help Vir’era. He knew the Dalish had their own gods—perhaps Vir’era would not like being part of prayers in the Andrastian religion. But Cullen had never been taught about the elven gods, wasn’t sure he could pray to entities whose names he didn’t know, whose existence was unacknowledged in his own religion. He sent a quiet plea to the universe anyway, in case Vir’era’s gods were real and listening, in case they cared for his continued existence.

One of the healers came for him as soon as Vir’era awoke. He let Hawke and her friends in with him, knowing their presence would make Vir’era feel more comfortable, more safe.

The anguish Cullen had expected. This made it no easier to see, to watch, but Hawke seemed to know what to do, comforting Vir’era like it was ingrained in her, like Cullen could remember Mia doing, long ago. He hadn’t expected that from her—she always struck Cullen as too much a jokester, incapable of taking things seriously.

That the blood mages were dead also did not come as a surprise; all of Kirkwall had become aware of what Hawke and her strange collection of people could do. Blood mages would be right up their alley. He asked for reassurance on Vir’era’s behalf—and to have something satisfactory to report to Meredith, of course.

Fenris’ words about hunters, though, made almost no sense.

_“Knight-Captain, surely you’ve noticed Vir’era’s lovely face, haven’t you?”_

Cullen barely contained an ill-timed flush at the words, determinedly not staring at the face in question. But Hawke only went on to emphasize the golden Dalish tattoos marking Vir’era’s face, not any amount of loveliness that might launch a thousand ships. And, truth be told, Cullen did not often—barring his earlier wonderings in the Chantry—consider what it meant, for Vir’era to be Dalish. Such things as nationalities and races were usually irrelevant in the Circle… But the Dalish were ever an exception, he supposed, having no proper nation of their own.

And there was supposed to be a clan living over on Sundermount, or so he’d been told. He just… hadn’t realized there might be a connection, rather than mere coincidence. It hadn’t seemed important.

Still, if Vir’era was important enough to them to rescue, he would trust that the cabal of maleficarum responsible had been killed as they claimed.

_“The Knight-Commander will be pleased to hear that.”_

Somehow, it was this statement that roused Vir’era, and an anger like none Cullen had ever seen rose, quick and sharp enough to force him to do a double-take. The words that spilled forth, their sheer rage and bitter accusations unsettled him to his very core.

_“It is her fault._

_“You may tell her as much._

_“She uses fear and tyranny._

_“I have never seen a Circle so dismal in caring for the mages in its trust.”_

And his final barb, the one Cullen would never forget because it was what he had thought he was doing until that very moment:

_“It is a Circle’s duty—a Templar’s duty—to care for the mages within as well as the non-mages without.”_

He knew he had failed. Later, he would recall every mage accused of blood magic, every mage accused of attempting to ensorcel the public, every minor infraction punished with extreme bias and severe consequences. And he remembered those for whom he had not spoken, those whose punishments were so far beyond what was ordinary that he only learned of it after. The Tranquil who simply appeared within the Gallows courtyard, who had been unbranded the day before.

He’d said nothing.

He had failed to protect the innocent.

But in the moment, he had not come to that inevitable conclusion. He made some terrible, fumbling excuse, some string of idiocy that didn’t even faze Vir’era, who simply continued glaring a hole into Cullen’s heart.

Then Vir’era rose like his extensive injuries meant nothing and stalked to Meredith’s door. Cullen followed, as did Hawke and her band, and he was struck by just how well Vir’era maintained composure. He almost suspected demons, but he could see the slightest of tremors, knew that no demon would withstand so much physical and emotional turmoil without exposing itself. Besides, Vir’era had always been too intrinsically good to use a demon’s power. Cullen felt confident in that.

The accusations and vitriol against Meredith continued in her office: the Tranquil, the rules and curfews on both mage and Templar, the raids—and… the blackmailing of a Grey Warden.

The Guard-Captain seemed particularly interested in that last part. Orsino, too, when the subject of Vir’era’s lessons with Kirkwall’s Templars was brought to light. Cullen didn’t regret informing the room, even though he knew it lost him no small amount of clout with Meredith.

He found himself hard-pressed to care about her approval. He wasn’t sure he entirely agreed with Vir’era’s ideas on magic and mages, but he knew: he did not agree with how Meredith ran the Gallows. That made enough difference.

_“I blame you for all that mages in Kirkwall resort to.”_

Vir’era and his friends left. A great deal of Cullen’s faith in the Templar Order followed.


	7. blustery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick warning: this chapter does contain ignorance re: transgender identities, and the resulting misgendering. it can be interpreted as transphobia, but it becomes a non-issue.
> 
> this covers [kirkwall chapter 19](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987247/chapters/17197492#workskin).

After the mess of Vir’era’s—incident, Meredith made plans. Cullen saw her pen a letter to the Warden-Commander, and he waited for the other shoe to drop; she had been far too unbothered by Vir’era’s tirade, seemed far too assured of herself.

But the shoe that dropped was one he’d never expected.

_“Warden Sabrae is not who he claims. I wonder if_ she _is even a Grey Warden.”_

Vir’era—if that was even the right name, if that was not itself a lie—was, apparently—or so Meredith had been told by the healers—not a man at all. But rather than blast this information, Meredith wanted to play the long game, and she ordered Cullen to remain quiet until she had received a reply from Warden-Commander Cousland.

Cullen wasn’t sure what to think. He had no doubt that the healers had not lied, but… he could not bring himself to fully accept that Vir’era had been a lie. If he was—if Vir’era was merely some disguise, what was the purpose? But if there was no disguise, what other reason could there be for this new information, for what the healers had learned? He did not bring up these confused ponderings to Meredith. He didn’t trust her judgement anymore—maybe hadn’t for a long time.

So they waited. It took weeks, long enough that Meredith began and discarded more letters to the Warden-Commander—and then…

_“I am Warden-Commander Castor Cousland.”_

He came to them. The actual Warden-Commander, one of the Heroes of the Fifth Blight, came all the way to Kirkwall’s Gallows Circle to answer the accusations against his Warden, with Vir’era, the youngest Hawke, and another Hero of the Fifth Blight flanking him.

Meredith, having not expected such a response, was visibly displeased. She’d probably hoped to be allowed to mete her own form of justice out against Vir’era, and Cullen was grateful her plans seemed foiled. Even if Vir’era was not who Cullen had been told… He still did not want to see the Tranquil brand brought to Vir’era’s head. That was too cruel for someone so giving, liar or otherwise.

There was no one else in the world—not even Orsino, as talented with debate as he was—who Cullen had ever seen shut Meredith down so quickly and effectively. Few enough could even try, but Castor Cousland? He deconstructed and discarded her talking points like it was nothing, like he had been born doing this. Whether the codebook he cited was real and accurate, Cullen neither knew nor cared. He was on edge, waiting for Meredith to play her trump card, to know what Commander Cousland would say in response.

Cousland seemed unsurprised at the idea that Vir’era might have secrets, a fact which set Cullen at ease as much as it rankled Meredith. Perhaps—just perhaps—not all was lost. He held out hope, even as he dreaded the faint possibility of blood magic. That even shapeshifting was no issue to the Warden-Commander was as concerning for the discretion of their order as it was a relief for Vir’era’s safety.

It was only when Cullen Cleansed the room of magic that Commander Cousland lost his cool… despite, or so it seemed, the lack of any changes to the people present in the room. Cullen listened as Meredith pressed her new advantage, but his eyes were on Vir’era, who looked physically no different from moments before. Whatever this was, no magic was in play, and that—well. That was the best relief of all. The only thing that remained was Meredith’s final play.

_“He is, in fact, a woman.”_

Cullen had expected shock—and, certainly, there was a measure of it that followed—but he did not expect laughter.

The Warden-Commander… didn’t care. Cullen couldn’t tell from his words if he’d known before this or not, but he certainly found the revelation as compelling an issue as the ground beneath his feet. Less, maybe.

Warden-Commander Cousland discarded this with as much confidence as he had used to dismiss Meredith’s claims of jurisdiction over Vir’era and the apostate helping run the Darktown clinic. What his play was, Cullen couldn’t immediately tell—not until he made it apparent that here _was_ no play.

_“Vir’era is a man because he says he is a man.”_

Cullen… didn’t know, exactly, what that meant on a broad scale, but he knew what it meant in the moment. He knew it was what he had not known was possible to hear, what he had hoped for nonetheless, and he could have dropped to his knees from relief if he had not cared about Meredith’s reaction.

_“He is who he has always been.”_

Cullen’s mind nearly swam with the vocal confirmation. He paid little mind to the Warden-Commander’s final words, which were barely more than a summary of what he had already established.

Vir’era was safe.

Vir’era was good.

Vir’era was everything Cullen had already known and so, so much more. It was not only Cullen in whom he had engendered loyalty, not only the Rutherford family whose lives he had touched beyond recompense. Nothing said here could not have been sent by letter, but the Warden-Commander had come in person.

Sure, Cullen wasn’t entirely certain what sort of person the Warden-Commander was, but this sort of reaction spoke to at least a measure of kindness, and that… Well, it was reassurance enough.

He vowed, silently, to never again doubt Vir’era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a note: here i think is where we see the final nail in the coffin of canon!cullen. while my cullen still has many of the same motivations and will do many of the same things as in canon, most of the key points in his opinion on mages have now been irrevocably altered in ways that did not ever happen in canon. he's not about to become a disciple of anders or anything, but it's important to know that, as far as i'm concerned, canon!cullen's thoughts on mages are dead as of this point. (doesn't mean we won't see their ghosts, but that's another bag of cats.)


	8. gusts

Cullen spent an entire week’s worth of free time doing everything he could to learn about people like Vir’era. He scoured the Circle’s library, to the consternation of the resident mages, but there was nothing to be found. Even the few books they had about the Dalish didn’t cover any such thing about gender. (And, with what he read from Brother Genitivi’s books, he wondered if the man had actually spent any time among the Dalish at all.)

But he burned with a need to know, to understand—he wanted to help Vir’era however he could, and if he could bring proof to Meredith that Vir’era was not the only one…

She wouldn’t care. He knew that, in some part of his mind. Her goal had never been about truth or lies; it had been about removing or controlling Vir’era. Just how such a good example of what mages should aspire to be was so offensive to her, Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He would surely not like the answer.

It was Orsino, in the end, who sated his curiosity. Orsino did not often speak with Cullen—and if he did, it had typically been in Meredith’s presence—but few others in the Circle were so learned, and fewer still so well-traveled. If anyone had heard of such a thing, Cullen was sure it would be him.

_“This is about the Grey Warden, isn’t it?”_

Orsino seemed almost happy to tell Cullen all he knew about people like Vir’era. At least, he answered all of Cullen’s questions with a patience normally reserved for the apprentice mages, and he even smiled once or twice. There wasn’t much to learn that Cullen couldn’t have deduced on his own, but it helped to have someone else confirm things.

The rumors about purported body-modifying spells worried him—he could remember how flat Vir’era’s chest seemed, though that needed not be the result of magic—but the rest, the parts that did not include magic? Well, even if he didn’t fully understand it, it all seemed straightforward enough. It seemed no stranger than any other incidents of nature. Honestly, the shapeshifting had been more of a concern.

(Now he wondered if Vir’era’s original interest in that branch of magic wasn’t tied to his gender. It must have been a disappointment, if so, to learn that he could only become animals, not people.)

And with this information, with the knowledge and surety that Vir’era had never intended to deceive anyone, and had (as ever) been honest and true—Cullen needed to see him. Needed to apologize.

That the Hawkes had taken Vir’era in, offered him a room in their home—Cullen didn’t expect to feel such gratitude for something like that, but he did. Hopefully, Vir’era would stop looking like a breeze could knock him over. Hopefully, he would be safe. (It didn’t matter that Darktown liked Vir’era; it still wasn’t safe.)

His apology, he knew, was lackluster. He wasn’t good at—at admitting when the Templars, on any level, were wrong. And Meredith… She was his commanding officer. Strict as she was, it felt inappropriate to criticize her so directly, however deserved.

_“It wasn’t the worst she could have done.”_

The Tranquil brand flew through Cullen’s mind. It would ruin Vir’era’s Dalish tattoos, but he knew Meredith had been hoping for that outcome. If the Warden-Commander hadn’t stepped in—if Vir’era hadn’t been a Grey Warden… But he had, and he was. And maybe there were other offenses, too—now that he knew Vir’era had not been born a man—well…

He had to clear the air about that, too. He needed Vir’era to know that it wasn’t just the Warden-Commander’s orders that kept him calling Vir’era a man: it was the knowledge that, despite what biology or Meredith had to say about it, Vir’era just was a man, and that was it. With Orsino’s corroboration, he held no doubts.

_“If he says you are telling the truth, then I am inclined to believe him.”_

Somehow, these words, so simple and so late, were still enough to bring Vir’era to tears. At first, Cullen tried to act as he would even if Vir’era weren’t crying, but soon the poor man had fallen into complete weeping. Cullen didn’t know the reason, was not so egotistical as to believe the tears were all for his words, but he knew in Kinloch, he’d been locked behind a magical barrier, unable to help.

This time? There was no barrier in the way.

He’d never been as good at comforting people as Mia. She was a natural, always ready to lend an ear, a shoulder, a hug. Cullen wasn’t as good at reading what someone needed, but he could always try. So, kneeling in front of Vir’era, he reached out and pulled him into a hug, hoping it was the right move to make. Vir’era didn’t shy away, which was a good enough sign. And, well… He had more to say. Things Vir’era need to know.

_“You are one of the few mages I do trust.”_

And, oh, it was more than just trust, but Vir’era didn’t need to know more. Not when it was so impossible, so out of place. No, best to stick with the trust, and leave the rest unsaid.

At first, Vir’era didn’t seem to believe him, but he explained, because it was important. Vir’era deserved to know how important he was, how much he had helped Cullen. He deserved more, too, but Cullen couldn’t give that, couldn’t promise protection to a battle-capable man.

When Vir’era had recovered himself, Cullen was left once again in the uncomfortable position of not knowing what to do—until, with very little ceremony, Vir’era announced Mia’s imminent arrival. All the things he’d written in the wake of the blood mages’ attack… she was not going to let him off the hook for that easily. He should be happy to see her again—and he was, or at least would be—but he’d need to do some groveling and penance first, which no one ever enjoyed. He shouldn’t have said anything until he knew the whole story. He’d fucked up, again.

_“I forgive you.”_

Those words from Vir’era’s lips had his heart flipping and his mind racing. He would not have been so generous in Vir’era’s position. Why Vir’era chose to offer such to him…

He would need to work harder to make himself worthy of such a thing. Mia would know how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon doesn't touch on it often, but cullen apparently does read and like to learn, so i'm using that to my advantage.


	9. zephyr

Mia was, of course, furious with him. When she arrived at the Gallows, though she did hug him, she didn’t bother with attempting to be discreet in her displeasure, or the source of it. He barely had time to send someone to warn Vir’era.

_“Cullen Stanton Rutherford, our parents raised you better!”_

He managed to usher her to his room before she could shout too much about Vir’era and how Cullen should have treated him with less suspicion, but it was a close call. She paced the length of his quarters, lecturing him on the proper way to treat friends, the finer points of loyalty, and just how much they owed to Vir’era, in case he’d forgotten.

He let her and didn’t interrupt. She was mostly right—as always. Vir’era had never done anything to earn such suspicion. Mage or not, he was trustworthy. And, more than any of that… It was just so, so wonderful—so _comforting_ —to be seeing her in person again. It had been years. He had just ben a recruit the last time he saw her.

He hadn’t realized just how much he missed her.

_“You’re right. I’m sorry, Mia.”_

The apology didn’t stop her huffing, but it did slow her down. She reiterated her points, especially the one about how he had no right to use his past troubles to make things hard for someone who was only trying to help, then sat beside him on his bed.

They didn’t sit there for long—just for long enough that the tension dissipated. Then, once more full of energy, Mia was demanding he take her to see their friend. He tried to get her to wait for the recruit to return, so they’d know Vir’era was ready to see them, but she wouldn’t hear it. He’d never been good at making her do what he wanted.

Thankfully, she’d yelled at him long enough that Vir’era had been found by the recruit and was at the Hawke Estate when they arrived. As Cullen tried to apologize and Mia fussed, it was so, so easy—so _natural_ to fall back into the same sibling pattern they’d had since forever. Vir’era even—Vir’era laughed.

He’d never heard Vir’era’s laugh before. It was nice. It… he’d never even thought about what kind of laugh Vir’era might have, and now that seemed like such a terribly grave oversight. Mia fawned over it, and Cullen tried to figure out how to hear it more.

_“I want to see your clinic.”_

The words had Cullen scrambling. Vir’era, too. The Darktown clinic was hardly a place to visit like a tourist—Kirkwall had other spots! Even Lowtown’s infamous Hanged Man pub would be a smarter choice—but, like with her determination to see Vir’era first thing, Mia could not be dissuaded.

It should have been fine. There shouldn’t have been anything of note—Cullen had seen it a few times, and never had there been anything to see that could cause a conflict of interest.

So, of course, this time was the exception.

_“That’s Carolina.”_

He hadn’t really meant to say anything. He wasn’t supposed to be there. But the person on the cot, bleeding and near as close to death as Vir’era had been short weeks earlier—she was one of Kirkwall’s mages. He recognized her, had seen her not two days previously, helping to teach the youngest apprentices some basic techniques for control. She was kind. She should have been in the Circle still, safe, but she was here, in Vir’era’s barely-legal Darktown clinic.

Cullen knew enough to know that either Anders or Garrett Hawke had been using magic to heal her. (He chose to believe it was Anders. He suspected that Garrett was a mage, but had no proof. Anders, on the other hand, was technically under Vir’era’s watch and the Grey Wardens’ protection. It was safer for him to be a mage.)

Carolina panicked at the sound of his voice, shaming him. She should not have feared him so, but he knew none of Kirkwall’s mages really trusted him. He was too close to Meredith, and he did nothing to ease their lives under her control. The fear Carolina showed… it was terrible, but not undeserved.

So soon after Vir’era’s own accusations, it hit hard. He needed to do something, if he could. Not much was in his power, not if he wanted to keep his position, to remain a Templar and out of Meredith’s increasingly paranoid eye, but he could at least try. She did too much, he agreed.

Carolina should never have needed to flee, and Cullen alone could not protect her from Meredith or from Alrik, the worst of the Templar Order. He would let her go, would pretend he’d never seen this. It was the most he could do.

_“She has always been a good person.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor note: i don't personally agree with cullen's thoughts about how little he could do to help mages, but this isn't about what i think or what is true. it's about what he thinks, and how this version of him is different from canon!cullen, who would never have ignored something like this--who would likely have actually reported it to meredith, possibly taking carolina in to the gallows himself.
> 
> canon!cullen was not a nice person in da2. (he was traumatized and terrified, yes; he had reasons to act the way he did. this does not mean he should be absolved or that his actions and words should be swept under the rug.) my cullen is trying, but he doesn't always succeed, and that's important.


	10. tempest

Cullen hated the knowledge that somewhere in Kirkwall, Vir’era was fighting. He held no doubts about it; the Arishok had reached the end of his patience with their city, apparently, and had decided to forcibly convert it and its citizens to the Qun.

Meredith sneered as she led the Templars through the city, calling the Qunari things like “heathens” or “godless barbarians.” Cullen couldn’t quite disagree with the barbarism, but he knew, too, that the last time he’d fallen for such generalizations, it had led to nothing but pain.

At least the Qunari, for all their fear of magic, had not learned how to Cleanse it like Templars. They could not leave Vir’era helpless, and he would surely be with the Hawkes or some of his other friends. He would not fall to the Qunari, not like the untrained civilians of Kirkwall.

Exactly why the Arishok chose then to attack, Cullen would never know. They did find Vir’era with the Hawkes in Hightown, though. With all the chaos, they didn’t even have time to worry about Garrett Hawke proving to be a mage. Cullen doubted they’d ever be able to take him to the Gallows peacefully, and found he didn’t care as much as he once might have. Unmonitored magic was still dangerous, of course, but Garrett had always proven himself to be a boon to the city—and they knew where he was.

(Not that Cullen would complain if Garrett were to go to the Circle, as all mages should. But it was a very, very low priority.)

As Vir’era disappeared with his friends into the Viscount’s Keep, where the Arishok had made hostages of most of Kirkwall’s nobility, Cullen feared he’d seen the last of his—his what?

They were hardly even friends, after all the bullshit Cullen had pulled, but what else would they be? (He silenced his heart and its foolish desires. They could never be more.)

_“Maker protect you.”_

A prayer would mean little in the face of the Arishok’s cruelty, but he could do nothing more. He had to keep the rest of the Qunari from their continued onslaught, had to trust that Vir’era and the Hawke company could end this before Kirkwall fell.

He and the other Templars worked alongside what few mages Meredith saw fit to allow out of the Gallows in the uprising. Cullen knew she feared that some would turn on them, help the Qunari, despite what the Qun apparently had to say about magic. Orsino, at least, was present, and a very capable spellcaster. With his help, they had little trouble in preventing more Qunari from entering the Keep.

Two of the Hawkes’ companions did race by at one point, shouting for directions to the Arishok. Cullen didn’t bother trying to learn why they hadn’t been with the rest; it was far from important. He just sent them into the Keep and kept the Qunari off their backs.

If he ignored what looked like magic from the corner of his eye—well. There were enough Circle mages around for plausible deniability, and he was fairly sure the one in question was Dalish, anyway. No point in risking a disagreement with her clan. (Was it the same as Vir’era’s?)

Only when the worst was long over were the Templars able to enter the Keep. They found frightened nobles, blood staining the marble, the Viscount’s disembodied head—and the Hawkes, standing victorious over the dead Arishok.

It was impossible to ignore Garrett Hawke’s staff, but more impossible to drag him to the Gallows after he had, apparently, helped to save so many of Kirkwall’s most influential citizens. Meredith had to make a choice. Cullen would never have expected her to name both Garrett and Malia Hawke as Champions of Kirkwall, but in the years that followed, it began to make sense.

After all, if she acquiesced there, she would be better-liked—and she could name herself as Temporary Viscount without opposition, to say nothing of having both Hawkes on a leash she could hold.

It was nothing but a power play. As soon as she had any excuse, she would take Garrett Hawke in.

Thank the Maker the Hawkes were well-liked.

Thank the Maker that her attention had been so thoroughly diverted form Vir’era.


	11. gales

As the years wore on, Cullen spent what time he could with Vir’era. It wasn’t as much time as he would’ve liked; as Knight-Captain, his free time was sparse to begin with, and even moreso now that Meredith had the Templars doing almost as much of the city’s upkeep as the guards. (The Guard-Captain wasn’t happy. He didn’t blame her.)

Being around Vir’era so often did nothing for his hopeless crush. Time and exposure only served to reaffirm his affections, as he learned more and more about the man who so unknowingly held them. He learned that Vir’era loved cats, that he enjoyed singing, that it really was his clan on Sundermount, that he held a position within the clan, that he still wrote to his friends from the Fifth Blight—so very many things that only made Cullen adore him ever more.

So, when a mage from Kinloch (a young man named Connor) was willingly transferred to the Gallows, and his first action was to request to see Vir’era, well, Cullen was not suspicious. Slightly concerned, yes, but not suspicious. Vir’era had many friends in various places; this seemed plausible enough to at least ask about.

He did wait a few days, though. The first time he tried to speak with Vir’era about the new arrival, the Hawkes’ serving man said that Vir’era was busy with some errands for his clan. Cullen declined the offer of leaving a message, and brought up the topic when they met that week.

_“There’s something I need to tell you. A message.”_

There was something mildly surreal about being invited into Vir’era’s bedroom. It was simpler than the rest of the Hawke home, but there were a few personal touches about, like the small stuffed wyvern toy holding pride of place on the shelf by the bed, or the small bottle of polishing oil and stained cloth next to the stand where Vir’era’s distinctive staff rested. Maleficent, he’d heard it called.

Delivering Connor’s message was easy, but Vir’era’s wide eyes and pale face were worrying.

_“He is not dangerous, is he?”_

The implication was enough for Vir’era to vehemently defend this young man, and Cullen remembered just how much Vir’era loathed—and possibly feared—Knight-Commander Meredith. He had never forgotten, exactly, but usually it was easy to overlook; usually, there was little need to even graze the topic. Vir’era was not scared of Connor: he was scared _for_ him.

And from the sound of it, Connor had a history with magic that would make him one of Meredith’s targets, if she were to know it. Cullen chose not to ask. He chose to trust Vir’era’s judgement here; it helped that Connor had done nothing of note since his request to see Vir’era. There was little Cullen could say to soothe Vir’era’s fears beyond this, but it seemed to help somewhat.

_“I cannot see him now, if it is not urgent.”_

His tasks for his clan were apparently not yet done. Was that unusual? Were these tasks difficult, or just time-consuming? Why was it Vir’era who had to do them, when he had so much else on his plate? Could it be that he was the only one capable? All these questions fluttered through Cullen’s mind, and he found himself offering help before he even realized what he was doing.

(How arrogant! What use could he possibly be for a Dalish task? He couldn’t even help with the Warden ones! It wasn’t like when Vir’era asked for lyrium or something he could requisition from the Gallows.)

It was… vallaslin. The facial tattoos.

Vir’era… was going to apply them to one of his clan. Cullen tried not to stare at Vir’era’s hands. He had a healer’s hands, deliberate and deft, though Cullen knew fear could make them curl and shake. He knew a tattoo was a long process, meant concentration, meant hands on skin.

_“I… do not think I can help you with that. I’m sorry.”_

He played it like he wouldn’t want a tattoo, wouldn’t want even a painted practice. After all, it wouldn’t be appropriate; he was a Templar, was their Knight-Captain. In truth, though, it was simply because he didn’t think he could keep himself calm and quiet if Vir’era were to touch him so much.

Sparring was easier. They had armor and weapons between them then. There would be no need for skin-to-skin, and touches would not linger or wander, were not gentle.

A wild, errant thought considered confessing, here and now. Vir’era had been in Kirkwall six years, had been a constant for Cullen for longer. Perhaps it was a sign. Perhaps he just needed to take that final step—

The Hawkes interrupted, and the thoughts fled. Cullen rushed after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something that strikes me about cullen is that he seems to stay in his lane in most circumstances--blood magic notwithstanding (though he arguably would consider that, in his time as a templar, to be 'his lane'). i think it's often intentional, so i've tried to reflect that in my portrayal. of course, that he's not asking for more information about something that could clearly be concerning is also because he has a BIG OL CRUSH and doesn't want to get his crush in trouble, doesn't even want to know anything that would make him feel it's his duty to do something that would upset said crush, but, y'know. nuances.


	12. whirlwind

Cullen wasn’t always clear on just what it was that Vir’era did with the Hawkes, but he did know that it often took him out of Kirkwall for days at a time. He didn’t ask; it wasn’t his place. It wasn’t really his place to worry, either, but he found himself fretting regardless.

That was, maybe, part of why he hesitated so much at accepting the invitation to his brother’s wedding. Meredith would let him go, if he asked permission. He’d never taken extra time off in his years of service and—well. He suspected that she’d be glad to have him out of her hair for a while.

It was no secret, his friendship with Vir’era. He would have been stripped of his commission long ago if he hadn’t proven his dedication to eradicating blood magic wherever it hid. The only reason he had not been replaced as Knight-Captain was that Meredith, for all she did not trust his ideas or motives, knew he did not violate orders. (Or so she thought. Carolina, after all, was never found.) And… Meredith was paranoid. She always had been, but it had grown more and more prominent.

Cullen wasn’t sure Meredith trusted anyone anymore, not even the most devout, loyal Templars at the Gallows.

She hunted for blood magic in every nook and cranny of Kirkwall, leading the investigations as often as her other duties would allow, to the detriment of her health. Cullen couldn’t even imagine how she was still standing—most days, her eyes were so dark he couldn’t say where the lack of sleep began and the spite ended.

She resembled a ghoul more and more with each passing day. It was frightening. Sometimes, Cullen wondered if she herself hadn’t come under some sort of magical influence. There was so little left of the Commander he’d met, back when he was first assigned to Kirkwall. He worried what would happen if he left for any length of time.

Would Kirkwall even still exist?

Vir’era encouraged him to go, to see his brother’s wedding, to visit his hometown. Maybe it would all be fine. And he hadn’t seen Branson in so many years…

He could probably afford two months. Something was building—he recognized the tension in the air, so similar to just before the Arishok attacked, but without any obvious aggressors. Surely there was time. The mages (and Meredith) could behave a while longer.


	13. eye

Cullen should have left for Honnleath a week earlier, if he wanted to have time not to rush and worry. But Vir’era had gone off on one of those adventures the Hawkes kept finding, and Cullen just couldn’t make himself leave without a proper goodbye. After all, he had no idea how long it’d be until they saw each other again. It could be just the length of his visit—or it could be years.

He didn’t want to leave a note, just in case.

He hadn’t accounted for how romantic it would feel, standing at the docks and saying goodbye. There were no overt signs, no weepy farewells or lingering embraces, but, oh, Maker… Sweet Andraste, he was so very tempted to take the risk, to sweep Vir’era into his arms and kiss him. The ocean itself seemed to be reflected in those blue eyes, and they’d never been blessed with a more perfect atmosphere.

And if it all went wrong, he could get on the ship and run away.

(No, he couldn’t. Kirkwall still had need of him.)

He suppressed these urges by focusing instead on the words Vir’era said, and those he almost did. He kept stopping himself from speaking Elven—or Elvish, or whatever it was called. It was a shame. Such a beautiful language, and such an intrinsic part of Vir’era, surely… He should feel free to use it whenever he wanted, even if Cullen didn’t understand.

_“Ma serannas, ma falon.”_

Warmth swelled within him, and Cullen let it show. It was strange, like opening a long-ignored door, or using a tool that had been nearly forgotten, but it felt good. Whatever Vir’era’s words meant, Cullen let their sounds fill him with happiness for just a moment, and pretended they were an endearment.

(Maybe someday, he’d try to learn their meaning, but not today. Today, he would pretend.)

Vir’era gave him a letter to deliver to Mia, and he made sure to find a safe place for it in the sturdy cover of a book, where it would not be crushed or lost. He would look at it later, his curiosity too great, and admire Vir’era’s handwriting, which held all the quiet surety and subtle beauty of its author. (Or, at least, so it seemed to him, though even he knew he was hardly unbiased.)

He couldn’t help but remind Vir’era of the tension in the city. Much of it was, of course, beyond what Cullen had access to, but Vir’era—well. He knew Vir’era was aware of many things, could remember mentions of a gift in Kinloch. And Vir’era had a habit of being in the thick of it. He suspected Vir’era had some ideas to what was happening. Vir’era was quiet in his confirmation, but he did confirm these fears.

_“May the Maker watch over you. Be careful, and please, stay safe.”_

He knew Vir’era could not promise him complete safety, but he asked nevertheless. Maybe it would do nothing, but maybe—just maybe—it would remind Vir’era that there were people who cared for him, who wanted him to stay safe.

There was a drawn look about his face, though, a quiet sense that he was holding something back. What it could be, Cullen couldn’t begin to guess. It couldn’t be good, if the downward turn to his lips and brows was any indication, but he didn’t know how to breach the topic, didn’t know what words to say.

The final boarding call was made. Cullen faltered; how was he meant to say goodbye? A hug? A handshake? A nod? He knew only that a kiss would be too bold. As he fumbled for something to do, he ended up clasping a hand to Vir’era’s arm. It felt too distant, but it was too late.

_“Dareth shiral, Cullen. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.”_

As the ship pulled away, Cullen stood and watched Kirkwall fade into the distance—watched Vir’era stand vigil until he was out of view.

One of the sailors asked if Vir’era was his sweetheart. He didn’t deny it. Maybe someday he’d have the courage to make it true.


	14. hurricane

Kirkwall was on fire.

As the ship bringing him back from Ferelden had docked, there was an explosion in Hightown that reached into the sky and rained fire down upon the rest of the city. Terror and chaos ensued, chasing people from the streets into every available shelter.

It took too long to convince the captain to lower the gangplank and allow him into the city. By the time Cullen reached Lowtown, things had devolved into fighting. Templars in full uniform were fighting mages—what few were allowed in the city proper—and slaughtering them. Even civilians were not safe from their blades, if they chose to defend a mage.

Some of the mages broke, giving in to demons.

It was Cullen’s worst nightmare, realized.

A passing Templar recognized him and paused in her bloody work long enough to salute, to answer his desperate questions.

_“The apostate Anders destroyed the Chantry and killed the Grand Cleric._

_“Knight-Commander Meredith called for the Annulment of the Circle._

_“Warden Sabrae was last seen heading to the Chantry.”_

She didn’t know if Vir’era was alive. She refused to halt her duty, claiming that Meredith’s orders were just. She called the citizens who tried to stop her ‘unfortunate casualties.’ He kept her just long enough for an unfamiliar young mage to disappear, safer in Darktown, then let the Templar continue to the docks.

Cullen made for the Chantry.

It was only a faint hope that Vir’era would still be alive—that explosion had been enormous. But perhaps the Templar had been wrong. Vir’era could still be fine. He might have only been passing by the Chantry.

He tried to gather information as he made his way, but the only thing anyone could agree on was that magic had caused the explosion. He skirted the common routes, which were too fraught with fighting and fear to be expedient. The few Templars he passed all mentioned Meredith’s march to the docks, to the Gallows, where she would enact the Annulment of the Circle.

Cullen tried not to let his disgust be too evident. The mages of the Circle had done nothing. It was only the one who had destroyed the Chantry who—

_“They’re bringing that Grey Warden in. Said he helped destroy the Chantry.”_

Could that be—no, no, it had to be impossible, had to be coincidence. Vir’era wouldn’t kill innocents, would he? Cullen ran to the Chantry. There was only rubble left—and beneath the rubble, the dead and dying. One of the Sisters lay lifeless, golden robes stained red, dark eyes staring into the sky. (He remembered others like that—mages in stained robes, Templars in sundered armor…)

A child ran up to him, and he nearly did not recognize her for the ash that discolored her face and hair, but it was… He thought for her name. The girl who worked in Vir’era’s clinic sometimes, who learned potion-making from him. Cynthia! She ran to him, and she told him in breathless fear what had happened.

_“Vir’era came to warn us. He sent us out, shouted for it._

_“He used a shield to save me, but it got him._

_“They took him away. They said he did it.”_

Cullen wanted to believe her, but the story was damning. How could Vir’era have known what was happening if he weren’t involved? If it had ben Anders, how could he not have known? They worked so closely…

But there wasn’t time for such thoughts. He would find Vir’era—with the chaos, the Templars would likely do little more than throw him in a cell—and he would question him. Vir’era had rarely bothered to lie in Cullen’s presence, for all his evasions, and Cullen knew his tells. One way or another, he’d learn the truth.

He thanked the child and turned on his heel, this time going as directly to the Gallows as he could. A few Templars fell into step as he passed—including Knight Hugh, who would have been stationed at the Chantry.

_“Hugh. Report. What happened in the Chantry?”_

The report was no more clarifying. Vir’era had entered the Chantry and shouted wildly for everyone to leave, claiming that it was going to be destroyed. He had stayed until the last moments, had ushered people out, and then… He had sent up a signal.

The Chantry exploded immediately after.

Was he responsible? Had he been in on it? Had he gotten cold feet? He’d clearly known. He’d also clearly tried to save lives, or at least get more out of danger. But that signal was so out of touch with everything else, the timing so convenient…

It pained Cullen to think about it, to consider what it meant, so he stopped. He focused on reaching the Gallows, on sending civilians to safety. There wasn’t much time. Even if Meredith was marshaling her forces, she would want to take care of Vir’era quickly and publicly, possibly even before finishing the Circle’s Annulment.

(Was it even a legal Annulment? The Grand Cleric was dead.)

He ignored any calls to join the gathering in the main courtyard. He had to find the truth. Someone passed him, carrying Vir’era’s staff. He recognized the dragon, Maleficent.

_“I’ll take that from here. Go to the courtyard.”_

He was the Knight-Captain. With the chaos, his orders were not questioned. Maleficent felt cold in his hands, and if he didn’t know about the most basic workings of a mage’s staff, he might have worried that it was a sign. As it was, he just kept moving. He had no sword, no armor, no ideas, but he knew: Vir’era would not lie.

He ignored any calls or questions or greetings as he stalked down to the Gallows’ dungeon. There was no time for it. He stopped only when he found himself facing a familiar mabari. He didn’t know and didn’t care how Vir’era had escaped without raising an alarm—Vir’era was shit at chess, but not shit at magic. There were plenty of spells he could have used, not to mention the shapeshifting.

_“Follow me.”_

He took Vir’era to the training courtyard, eerie in its total silence and emptiness. As he faced Vir’era there, watched him looking still so small even on two legs once more, he asked for the truth. He knew there wasn’t time for everything, but he needed _something_. He needed to know he’d been right. He need to know he could still trust Vir’era.

_“I only wanted to do the right thing.”_

What Vir’era said next took mere minutes, and Cullen knew he was only getting half the story—if even that much—but it challenged so many things. It reinforced others. It explained enough. He knew why these things were happening, and he knew: Vir’era had at least tried to do good.

It was the failure that made this hard.

After all, Cullen understood, and how could he not? Anders was as much of a force to be reckoned with as Meredith, and Vir’era only ever tried to help. He’d been as capable of changing Anders as Cullen was of changing Meredith. They had both stood to the side, able only to do too little too late, able only to save the few, not the many.

But he recalled Cynthia. He remembered the survivors from the Chantry. Maybe they didn’t all trust Vir’era, but they were alive because of him.

_“It’s not everything. There are other factors, things I don’t know… but it’s enough for now.”_

Vir’era had stopped the worst of Anders’ rage. Now, it was Cullen’s turn, and he knew where to find Meredith.

_“You could never have stopped her.”_

_“I am the Knight-Captain. It is my duty._

_“I’m sorry, Vir’era.”_

The apology wasn’t enough, would never be enough, but it was a start. It would be better when Meredith was stopped. He could start to make up for his long silence. He could start to make up for his failure.

Fighting Meredith wasn’t what he had intended to start with, but his questions were met with hostility, his demands to wait for higher Chantry authority laughed at. Cullen saw how waves of Meredith’s most loyal charged the mages’ stronghold and failed; he knew it would be a bloodbath if this continued. So he challenged her. It was the only option.

Most of his brethren stood with him. Most had long since realized Meredith was mad. The sound of clashing swords filled the courtyard quickly, but even with the advantage of numbers, Meredith was too strong. There was something terrifying and unnatural in her strength, and he could not hope to defeat her like this.

He did the only thing he could: he asked for the mages’ aid. The Hawkes would be with them. Vir’era would be with them. He needed their help, prayed to the Maker that they’d answer his call—

And they did.

They were bloody already, weapons and armor glinting with the stuff, but they all stood strong, ready to end this. They joined the fray without fanfare, joining their power to the remaining Templars’ as easy as breathing.

That did not make it an easy fight, nor a quick one. They had to work hard, had to let themselves trust each other—Cullen couldn’t help but pay special attention to Vir’era. He saw how erratic Vir’era was acting, like he was half-aware, staring dumbly in Meredith’s direction more than once.

Cullen didn’t know what it was about; he just knew it made Vir’era vulnerable. He barely saved Vir’era from a moving statue’s disastrous collision. Luckily, that seemed to break the fugue, and though Vir’era’s fighting continued to be distracted, he was once again an asset.

Eventually, Meredith fell. It was unlike any defeat Cullen had ever seen—she became a statue before their very eyes, made of something red that seemed an awful lot like lyrium. And then it was over, and there was just… nothing. Meredith was gone.

He stared at what was left of her. It wasn’t even a proper corpse. What was he meant to do with this? Bury it? Sentence it? Destroy it? The Champions approached, and he turned his stare to them.

He was no fool. He knew, could see, that they were protecting Anders. He could demand legal justice be served, demand Anders be taken in—but it would not happen without a fight. And Anders, however despicable his actions, however terrible—he had not been unprovoked. Admitting this, even to himself, burned, but it was the truth.

There would be no justice today, and Cullen had no interest in vengeance. The Grand Cleric was dead. The Knight-Commander was done. Cullen was now the highest-ranking Chantry authority in Kirkwall, and if even the Guard-Captain wasn’t taking Anders in… Neither would he.

He nodded at Malia and Garrett, slow and deliberate. They were Kirkwall’s Champions. Mercurial though they were, they’d proven themselves. They nodded back, and he let them go, watching as they and their friends absconded.

Vir’era lingered a moment by the gates. Cullen caught his eye, and he sent a small healing spell. A cut on Cullen’s lip, one he’d barely realized was there, sealed itself. He’d never felt Vir’era’s healing before, never needed to. It was gentle, kind.

It almost felt like a kiss.

He touched the spot to find a scar and knew he’d never forget this moment. Vir’era continued to watch, like he was concerned, like he maybe wanted to stay—

Then he turned and followed the Hawkes away.

Cullen wouldn’t see him again for almost four years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't mistake his letting anders go with him being okay with what anders did. he's not. he never will be. it's just not a fight worth having, given the circumstances. i'm happy to explain my choices (and his) further if it still rankles.


	15. new currents

Cullen was named Knight-Commander in the months following. Most of the Gallows’ mages fled; he declined any proposals to pursue them. A few stayed, as did most of the Tranquil and Templars.

Meredith’s body—what was left of her—remained in place, guarded at all times. No one was allowed closer than ten feet.

The Champions disappeared, and their friends went with them—except for their mother and Guard-Captain Aveline, who remained to pick up the pieces. Cullen spent a lot of time working with Aveline and Provisionary Viscount Bran. There was a lot to do: repairs to make, a city to rebuild, a people to bring back to their feet.

Vir’era took up his role as Keeper and was gone. He left only a letter—a confusing, difficult letter. So much of it had things Cullen didn’t know how to respond to, changed or challenged what he’d been taught, and it was painful to feel caught between the two. He wanted to trust Vir’era, but everything he’d been taught as a Templar said these claims were dangerous at best, that they could be catastrophic.

The only thing he could do was research as he waited. He didn’t have a mind for it, not like Vir’era did, not like a true scholar, but he was smart enough to know what questions to ask, at least. And… well, it helped that Vir’era promised to explain someday, promised to see him again.

_Dirthavara, and ir abelas._

_I will keep no more secrets._

Contacting Vir’era proved impossible—but, at first, while he tried to verify the claims Vir’era had made, this was bearable. The Warden-Commander was easier to get in touch with, and seemed almost like he’d been waiting for Cullen’s questions.

_Yes, there was someone the Chantry might call an abomination who helped during the Blight._

_To my knowledge, they have never hurt anyone._

_Yes, Anders is also such._

_Yes, Justice was brought to Vigil’s Keep._

It was a lot. To think that abominations were not doomed, that some could even—in the right circumstances—exist peacefully… He could barely comprehend that. It was anathema to the whole reason for how the Circle operated. It meant so very many things that he had trusted were, if not outright lies, at least deliberately ignorant. After all, if not all abominations were inherently evil… if there was a possibility of saving those that were… did they not owe it to the victims to try?

It was too great a question to answer on his own.

But the rest of Vir’era’s letter, those parts that begged for Cullen’s forgiveness and patience—those, he could handle. He was certain now, with the knowledge he had of red lyrium and how it affected the mind, with what he knew of abominations, that neither he nor Vir’era ever had any hope of calming or lessening the strain Anders and Meredith had, together, brought to Kirkwall.

Just as he could never have stopped Meredith, so, too, could Vir’era never have stopped Anders. They both made the best of terrible situations—and, perhaps, Vir’era had done more. He did not like it, did not like to know that Vir’era had been aware of Anders’ plan to destroy Kirkwall’s Chantry, but… What could he have done? There was no good result; at least this way, fewer innocents had died.

At least this way, Vir’era himself had not been a victim.

And Cullen trusted Vir’era. He had for a long time. This did test that (why did Vir’era not seek his help? what else did he know? what was it that he held so secret he dared not write it even in such a letter?), but the trust remained.

He didn’t like the idea of contacting Vir’era using a codename or through an intermediary, the way his letter asked. He wanted—no, needed—a more certain method. Something quicker, so that Vir’era would know… would know…

Did Cullen forgive him? Trust and forgiveness were not the same. Vir’era’s inaction could be linked to many of the deaths Anders had caused—most notably, that of the Grand Cleric Elthina. It was a hard thing to reconcile, but he knew it was important. It was a side of Vir’era he had glimpsed only in brief snatches, a part that Cullen knew despised the Circles, that resented the Templar Order, that distrusted the Chantry. Vir’era had intervened, yes—had saved what lives he could, yes—but he had not stopped it. Had maybe not even tried.

Could Cullen forgive that?

He considered the problem in the months after Vir’era disappeared. He spoke to those who’d known Vir’era, hoping someone would have a better method of contact—he asked Guard-Captain Aveline about it so often that she marched him from her office more than once—but everyone, even Mia, had something similar to him, if they had anything at all. The only significant change was location: Redcliffe Castle or Vigil’s Keep.

He could go to neither with Kirkwall in such disarray. Not even when Mia announced her upcoming marriage. Instead, he weighed his thoughts on Vir’era’s actions, words, and reasoning, and came to what felt like the inevitable conclusion:

Yes, he forgave Vir’era.

It would take more than well-meaning secrets and poor judgement calls for him to do anything but forgive. The promise of transparency helped: someday, he would know what had been going through Vir’era’s head. Vir’era just needed to stay safe until then—thus the runaround, the lack of contact. Though it pained him, he knew it made sense. Anyone known to have a connection to Anders would be in danger, and Vir’era now had a whole clan to worry about.

Cullen would do the same, in his shoes.

So he did the only remaining thing h could: he sent Vir’era a letter with all the luck he could give. He would miss the coin, but he could contact Branson easily, and he did not need the luck anymore. It had helped him survive Kinloch and Meredith; it had brought him Vir’era. Now, Vir’era was the one who needed it to keep him alive and well.

_I hope it can help you as it helped me, until I see you again._

Vir’era’s response came months—nearly an entire year—later, when Cullen had begun to lose hope. His words were too forgiving of Cullen’s shortcomings, but the sentiment was comforting nonetheless. With the letter was sent a token of Vir’era’s own: a runed geode. It looked well-made and well cared for. He didn’t recognize the runes or he make, but just holding it, he felt as though something in his chest had eased. Vir’era claimed it might help Cullen see the light in life.

_You helped me see the light in mine._

He folded the letter carefully, ensuring no words were caught in a crease, and stored it safely away. He asked the Tranquil that remained about the geode. They expressed what admiration they could for its quality and explained that its runes were for soothing the mind.

Cullen remembered how Vir’era had cried against his mabari in Kinloch Hold, how he would shake in Meredith’s presence, how his breath would catch sometimes when he thought no one was looking. Was this stone why he’d grown more confident over the years? Had it kept him from falling apart?

He supposed it didn’t matter; it was precious even if it had been little more than decoration, and Vir’era had entrusted him with it, had expressed hope that it might help.

The stone made it easy, when Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast came to Kirkwall, to pass on the role of Knight-Commander, to leave the Templar Order in the city that had nearly destroyed his faith in it. Templars were still necessary; the work they did was irreplaceable. But Cullen no longer enjoyed being part of it, often resented how thoroughly chained it held him.

He longed for the same freedom Vir’era had, longed to shed the Templar Order just as Vir’era had left the Grey Wardens. So, Seeker Pentaghast’s offer was impossible to turn down. He vowed, as he took off his Templar armor for the last time, to leave it all behind, to devote himself instead to the Inquisition that Divine Justinia was so quietly gathering.

He stopped taking lyrium.

He stopped wearing the Blade of Mercy.

He stopped allowing himself to see the mage before the person.

Guard-Captain Aveline commended him, when he informed the city’s officials. She promised Vir’era would find him. He believed her.

Vir’era had always known how to find him.

_I will see you again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a wrap!
> 
> now, obviously it's hardly the end of vir'era & cullen's relationship, but the rest will be explored from vir'era's point of view in tarasyl'an te'las. hopefully this has given a lot of insight to how i interpret cullen! he's an interesting and complex character, and his motivations aren't always clear when writing from vir'era's pov.


End file.
